


Crash site

by Mallorn



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars: Thrawn Series - Timothy Zahn (2017)
Genre: Alien Biology, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Fuck Or Die, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-06
Updated: 2019-01-06
Packaged: 2019-10-05 13:26:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,134
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17325857
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mallorn/pseuds/Mallorn
Summary: Stranded on a desolate planet and plagued by an embarrassing ailment, Thrawn is destined to die unless Arihnda Pryce takes mercy on him. While relations with an alien could mean risking the governorship she craves, so would accusations of causing his demise.





	Crash site

**Author's Note:**

> Written for 12 days of Dickmas on the Thryce discord. If you want to have a look at the dick I was assigned, it's Bad Dragon's "Nocturne" :-)
> 
> Cordial thanks to Cassandra1 for expert proofreading! Any remaining linguistic quirks are due to obstinacy on my part.

 

There are worse places to crash than Ursaal, Arihnda Pryce notes. The moon’s atmosphere is breathable, the temperature range falls within human preference parameters, and there are no natural hazards to speak of. The lack of potable fluid is a minor inconvenience, but their craft is equipped with emergency supplies for a far lengthier period than even a reluctant rescue party would need. If anything, the one threat here is death from boredom. Why did she have to agree to take Commander Thrawn on this trip? _Because His Excellency suggested it._ If she plays her cards right – and she will – the day will soon come when Tarkin’s orders will truly be no more than suggestions to her, when she will no longer need to acquiesce to the whims of others. Governor Arihnda Pryce has a nice ring to it.

The Commander meets the news with his customary calm.

“It is only for a few days, I believe?”

“It is,” she responds with equal calm, while screaming and cursing inside. What incompetent fools programmed the navigation computer? She has better, more pressing things to do, than to stare at an alien, however attractive.

The first cycle passes without event. The Chiss commander is a definite asset, as calm and efficient in a crisis as in every other situation she has seen him in. One on one, he’s not unpleasant company, there’s even a quirky sense of humour underneath that facade of stone. He’s rather pleasing to look at as well. Not that she makes an effort to do so, he’s just awfully slow in dressing after cleaning himself, walking around without a shirt on for nearly ten minutes and a half.

He is considerate and seems to take every chance to watch her as well, which may simply be a sign of his professionalism. He’d hardly want her to complain about him to Tarkin when they return. Regardless, his attention is pleasant. Now why didn’t she bring any arsil oil for her hair on this trip?

On the second day, Thrawn begins to act strangely. He pushes the tea button instead of the caf one, has to try three before recalling his password, and in spite of the warm weather, he puts on another layer of clothing over that shapely chest. He speaks little, and when he does, it is only to insist nothing is wrong with him. 

The third morning, he is gone.

This is unacceptable. He is her responsibility, her liability. Communications might be back at any time, and then he needs to be here. They will be found in perfect order, her competence never to be questioned. She will not lose him!

“Commander?” she calls, hesitant at first, then with greater desperation as she ventures farther from the ship without finding any sign of him. “Thraaawn!”

 “Ms Pryce.”

The relief washes over her in waves that do not quite quench her anger. He sounds tired, exhausted almost, yet there’s an edge of displeasure to his voice. As if she’s the one at fault.

“What do you think you’re doing? The rescue team may be on their way!” She doesn’t care that he’s ill.

“Go back to the ship, ma’am.” He sounds arrogant now, as overbearing as he always was.  “According to my calculations and observations, comms will be out for another three days at least.”

“What about you. Commander?” There is something he isn’t saying. “Even if you are correct and we end up being stranded here for days, the safety protocol is clear; the chances of survival increase if we stay together.”

“In three days’ time it will be too late for me. I am sorry. The ship is admirably prepared – your chances ought not to be diminished by my absence. I salute your Empire. Convey my apologies to the Governor for my failure to continue my studies.”

“You will return with me. If you’re unwell, the more reason to return to the shuttle. Even limited medical facilities are better than none.” The stubborn alien must see reason.

“Please, ma’am.” He stares at her now, his gaze unsettling, almost feverish. “I need to put myself at a distance from you. I would prefer not to burden you with my trouble.”

“Is there nothing I could do to help?” She doesn’t particularly desire to play nurse, but if this is what it takes to secure the success of this trip, she’ll not shy away from necessity.

He clearly hesitates. “There is, but I’m afraid I cannot speak of it.”

What nonsense is this? He knows she can be of help but doesn’t trust her enough to even tell her? She clenches her jaw.

“Tell me. I'm not entirely heartless.” The words come out a lot harsher than she intends.

“I cannot ask you for this. It is out of the question.” He blinks, and when he looks at her again it is with a pleading expression. “Please leave me to spend my last hours in solitude.”

“And it would look better if I'm found with a dead alien commander? Especially if word gets out that he died because of my neglect.”

“I’m sorry. The cause of my demise will indeed be quite evident.”

“This is some weird alien disease, is it? Is it contagious?”

“You need not fear.”

“In that case, spit it out. I'm not going to have my reputation ruined by being accused of murder.”

“You would still have it ruined,” he states coldly. “For being an – ‘alien-fucker’ I believe is the most common term.”

She blanches at the suddenness of the revelation. The word is an abomination, the act itself less so, at least to her. To him, it appears unthinkable.

“Were you considering involving me in this?”

She does not know why she asks, whether she hopes for, or dreads his answer. She did not expect him to take so long to answer, nor the guilt-stricken expression that passes over his features before he collects himself, squaring his shoulders and lifting his chin.

“Of course not, Ms Pryce. I would never presume –“

“Good.” She cuts him off, quickly, before he can embark onto a humiliating explanation of all the reasons she is unfit to save his goddamn life.

“I do not wish to risk your career,” he adds.

How convenient. The Empire’s xenophobia is the perfect excuse, and using it, he insults her intellect, which hurts almost as much as the blow to her vanity.

“I have heard the Chiss prefer to keep to their own kind as well,” she retorts, perhaps with a little more acid than intended.

“Indeed, Ms Pryce.”

The look he gives her is hard to interpret, and his voice almost sounds filled with regret. Does he pity her now, her faults and inferiority, or only the coming loss of his own miserable life? Both thoughts share in the burning behind her eyes. This conversation must end now if she’s to walk away with any dignity.

“Then we are of like mind, Commander. We will speak no more of this.” There’s a finality to her words she’s proud of, and apparently it gets through to him as well. He turns and leaves without another word.

Back in the shuttle, she seeks out the comfort of her sleeping alcove. The victory is all hers, so why does she feel so miserable?

At night, she hears him return. It’s not that late, but he doesn’t seek her out. Why should he, when her company isn’t worth anything to him? What is it to her if an arrogant alien perishes? Let him die.

 

* * *

 

In the morning she sees it clearly. Commander Thrawn is nothing to her personally, but she has a duty to herself, to her career. Being found with his dead body would set her back years, innocence notwithstanding. She knows the Imperial bureaucrats all too well.

Not a sound comes from his side of the shuttle. The agony that strikes her at the idea of his demise is annoyingly personal, and just as irrational as the elation she feels at hearing him grunt in his sleep.

Enthusiastic, she barges through the doorway.

She stares at the limbs stretching as he wakes, all the while fighting a silly urge to reach out and touch him, as if to make sure he is really there. Finally, he acknowledges her presence.

“Good morning, Ms Pryce.” His voice is neutral, there isn’t any trace of yesterday’s animosity.

“Good morning, Commander. You look better today.” It’s not a lie; his expression is much more agreeable than when they parted. “If you receive the necessary assistance, how long will it take for you to recover?"

He sighs, then sits up and swings his legs over the edge of the bed. Curse those shorts! She looks away, then carefully lets her gaze slide back to him. To his _face_. He is smiling, but it isn’t a happy smile.

“I will not have you sacrifice yourself for me, Arihnda.”

“How long?” He will not dictate her actions.

“A few hours, usually. It depends on the… intenseness of the cure distribution.”

“Tell me exactly what the cure is.”

“Mating. Coupling. Sex.” He sighs again. “I need to find release while sheathed in a vagina.”

She takes a step back, instantly cursing herself for this sign of weakness.

“You need not fear,” he says. “It has to be consensual.”

Curiosity wins over annoyance and she asks, reluctantly: “Your dick, or whatever you have there, can tell the difference?”

He shakes his head, smiling again, and she is reminded of why she doesn’t mind his company. ”My brain can. It is the hormonal overload that is harmful, not the lack of suitable physical stimulation.”

She cannot help the images of _stimulation_ coursing through her mind, nor the untimely sensation they cause in her. She must take the situation in hand, for her own sake.

“You will accept my assistance,” she tells him. “I don’t care that you don’t want me.”

“Arihnda, I – ”

“You are not fit to make decisions and you know it.”

 

* * *

 

 

He does insist on having breakfast and washing his face first, and she lets him, after making sure the delay will not cause his condition to deteriorate further. Meanwhile, she returns to her own bed and makes herself comfortable.

She is not prepared for the emotional onslaught at seeing him standing by the bed naked.

His equipment is in equal measures imposing and inspiring. Her experience isn’t vast, but none of the human males she’s been with has come close to _that_.

“Am I very different?” he asks with mild astonishment. “I was led to believe the basic features are similar between our species.”

“You are… large,” she says, mostly to win time. Size is the least unique difference but dwelling upon it allows her to pretend not to see the rest – the bulbous shaft, the pronounced ridges on the head and – she swallows – the three sharp-looking spikes at its base. If she squints, it almost looks normal, only the colouring out of place. Not for him, of course, the deep purple leaning towards dark violet is logical. _How are the females shaped to accommodate those spikes?_

He nods. “I will strive to make this as easy as possible for you.”

Lying down he appears less of a threat.

“You’re not going to pass out this instant?”

He laughs. It’s a breathy, broken sound, but his mirth is evident. “Arihnda, you have given me enough hope to last for a day on just that. There’s no imminent danger.”

She climbs onto the bed, staying on all fours, her face close to his. His hand strokes her back and she arches into the caress, then holds her breath as his fingers glides over her rump, then insert themselves between her thighs. She parts them, lowering her head. He will not see what he’s doing to her, not in her eyes. Her moans give it away; it already does not matter. That fingertip gliding between her folds, gathering wetness, spreading it, then applying pressure for a brief second onto her clit… She reaches beneath, catches his hand and holds it there until she can breathe again. She rests her head against his chest and his finger plunges into her and it feels amazing and she suddenly remembers why they are doing this.

Shifting, she turns towards his straining shaft and puts her hand around it. It twitches between her fingers and for a moment, his hand stills. She runs her hand up and down, squeezing, and he resumes fingering her. Somehow, that helps her concentrate, or takes part of her mind away from what she sees. The bulbs along the shaft are hard and swollen, each as wide as the head. Her hand opens and closes around them, the skin silky to her touch. She brushes against the highest spike and his entire body jerks. Oh. She does it again, even more lightly. This time his response is less violent, but just as enthusiastic.

She leans even closer, placing the tip of her tongue against that of a spike, the softness of it fascinating her. It feels strange and weirdly attractive, the texture reminding her of jellied candy. In an impulse of daring, she wraps her lips gently around the entire section of spikes.

Thrawn goes still then, but when she teases them with her tongue, he howls. The eerie sound freezes her for a second, then she lets go and lifts her head. The spikes are now the same, lighter, shade as the head of his cock, and they seem to pulsate. The entire shaft seems to be doing the same.

“Mount me,” he says raggedly, hands tugging at her hips.

She straddles his hips, eager but at the same time hesitant to take that thing inside her without being able to see it.

His eyes are closed, his mouth open in a silent moan, plea, whatever. He looks small like this, almost human. The area around his eyes is grey, how come she hasn’t noticed? His life in her hands. This man, waiting for her verdict. She touches his cheek, cups it, like one would hold a small animal. His hands are resting on the sheet. Does he not dare touch her? His upper lip twitches. She ignores the pressure against her rump and leans forward to stroke a strand of hair away from his forehead.

“Please.” It is a soft sigh, the final plea of the defeated.

She lets it well up then, the tenderness that fills her chest, her weakness, her desire. She brushes her lips against his, halts when he tastes them, soft and warm.

“Fuck me,” she breathes into his mouth. “Fuck me and live.”

He relaxes visibly; she sinks together with his chest. Hands caress the back of her thighs, teasingly, making her sit back just a little.

The first touch of it nearly makes her jump. _It’s too large too strange not human._ It’s warm and hard and feels delicious against her slick folds. The first bulbous part fills her up, brushes against her walls, making a path for the second, wider one. She sits up, lowers herself until the ridges on the base are pressed flat against her stretched opening. _The spikes._ She has to shift her weight a little to feel them; the uppermost one stimulating her folds, the next pressing against her perineum. The third is for some other position, for the _next time._

“Good?”

What question is that? She lifts a little, then sits back down. It’s fucking divine. She does it again, then places his hands firmly on her thighs.

“You set the pace. Make sure it doesn’t take too long. I’m not going to be found with a deceased alien with his dick out.”

He thrusts up into her repeatedly with enough force to lift her off the mattress. All subtle detail is lost in this thorough pounding; there is only more, and more, again. Life. Already now vigour is returning to his limbs, colour to his face. She smiles.

“Can we – you know  – ” she hints at the mattress “go slow?”

“It will take longer. You said –”

Idiot. “I don’t mind.”

He tips her off to the side unceremoniously. No sooner is she on her back than he is between her legs, preparing to –

“I want to watch.” Men’s fascination with the visual she never shared before; now she watches mesmerised as his hand steers his cock into her. She swallows the head in one gulp, then there – ah – comes the first thick part and – aaah – the second one. He pulls out ever so slowly, showcasing how her nether lips grasp his flesh, dragging against it, unwilling to let go. The glistening shaft goes in again, just as slowly, until she is flush against the base. She grinds against it, lifting and angling her pelvis until she can feel the protrusions below. The sensation of the third one pressing against her _there_ makes her unable to hold back.

“Now,” she urges. “Please, now. Now.” She is nearly sobbing, the feelings so intense, filling all of her. “Please. Please please plea-”

His lips are soft and she could drown in that feeling alone. His back under her hands feels like tight cords of rope, hard and smooth. Her eyes are shut tight, she has no need for vision now that she feels and feels and feels and with every thrust there is a spike that brushes strokes presses against her until all she knows is the pressure building inside her and she bursts.

He drives into her a few more times before joining her. He makes no sound to match her own moans, but afterwards, he lets out something between a sob and a snort.

“May I kiss you?”

Him asking is silly, yet she treasures him the more for it. She nods. “Yes. Please do.”

She’s unprepared for his lips grazing her neck, then continuing down her front, around her breasts and onto her belly. She catches his head, causing him to look up. Does he really want to?

“Please?”

She lets him kiss her mons, just at the top. He seems to know how sensitive she feels below, and it singles him out from everyone who’s ever touched her. That is what makes him truly different.

 

* * *

 

They convene again at lunch.

“Thank you,” he says simply, as if all she’s done for him is some minor kindness. It’s refreshing, and the exact level of gratefulness she’s able to accept. Something has changed; she couldn’t bear to see him grovel now.

“Are you sure it worked?” It’s a perfectly natural, casual question. Nothing more.

“If not, would you assist me again?”   

She stares at him, reluctant to admit the feelings evoked by the question. “As a matter of fact, I would.”

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I know there are a gazillion planets and moons in the GFFA, and yet I made one up. Yep. 
> 
> Thanks for reading! If you're ready for more, please do check out the other submissions in the Thryce 12 Days of Dickmas collection :-)


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